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    Cruzatte and Maria
    Cruzatte and Maria
    Cruzatte and Maria
    Ebook336 pages4 hours

    Cruzatte and Maria

    By Peter Bowen

    4.5/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A deputy discovers Meriwether Lewis’s journal in this modern-day mystery by an author who “writes about the rural West better than anyone” (Rocky Mountain News).
     
    When he’s asked to serve as a consultant for a documentary about the bicentennial of Lewis and Clark’s expedition up the Missouri River, Gabriel Du Pré’s impulse is to flee. Eastern Montana isn’t accustomed to getting much attention, and its residents prefer it that way. But the director of the film is dating Du Pré’s daughter Maria, so this hard-bitten fiddler’s hands are tied.
     
    The Métis Indian lawman agrees to act as a guide and help the filmmakers navigate the river, which is as deadly now as it was in 1805. The Missouri has claimed nine lives in the past three years—a suspiciously high death toll the FBI wants Du Pré to investigate. While trolling the riverbanks, Du Pré stumbles upon a national treasure: Meriwether Lewis’s lost journals, which the American government will do anything to get back. Meanwhile, when members of the film crew start dying, Du Pré begins to wonder if the locals hate outsiders so much they might be willing to kill to keep them out.
     
    “Bowen’s exuberant storytelling mines the rich cultural history of the West . . . [and features] delightfully extravagant characters” (Publishers Weekly).

    Cruzatte and Maria is the 8th book in The Montana Mysteries Featuring Gabriel Du Pré series, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateMar 13, 2012
    ISBN9781453246818
    Cruzatte and Maria
    Author

    Peter Bowen

    Peter Bowen (b. 1945) is an author best known for mystery novels set in the modern American West. When he was ten, Bowen’s family moved to Bozeman, Montana, where a paper route introduced him to the grizzled old cowboys who frequented a bar called The Oaks. Listening to their stories, some of which stretched back to the 1870s, Bowen found inspiration for his later fiction. Following time at the University of Michigan and the University of Montana, Bowen published his first novel, Yellowstone Kelly, in 1987. After two more novels featuring the real-life Western hero, Bowen published Coyote Wind (1994), which introduced Gabriel Du Pré, a mixed-race lawman living in fictional Toussaint, Montana. Bowen has written fourteen novels in the series, in which Du Pré gets tangled up in everything from cold-blooded murder to the hunt for rare fossils. Bowen continues to live and write in Livingston, Montana.

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    Reviews for Cruzatte and Maria

    4.5/5

    4 ratings3 reviews

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    • 2/5
      Basic old time values--liquor, guns, trucks, medicine men, sweat lodges, and cholesterol--face down new age filmmakers, abetted by evil environmentalists. Writing is smooth, booze and politics are not.
    • 5/5
      Really, these are not mystery novels. They are novels, very good novels, about the rural west that happen to have some murders and sleuthing. And laughter, fiddle-playing, drinking, smoking, cussing, and love.
    • 5/5
      Protagonist: Gabriel Du Pr?, M?tis fiddler par excellenceSetting: present-day Montana along the Missouri RiverSeries: #8First Line: Du Pr? limped into the Toussaint Saloon.Strong, willful Gabriel Du Pr? is putty in the hands of even stronger, more willful women. That's how he finds himself working as a consultant for a film crew making a movie about Lewis and Clark; his daughter Maria's boyfriend is the producer. However, when the Hollywood starlet hired to portray Sacajawea can't stand the (to her) primitive conditions, Maria finds herself with the role. Just as Du Pr? starts trying to find ways to prevent the resident Hollywood hunk from bringing out his guitar and joining in Du Pr?'s sessions, an FBI agent gets in contact with him. It seems the FBI knows what Du Pr? is doing, and since he's in the area, would he mind checking into the unexplained murders of nine people who'd last been seen boating on that stretch of the Missouri River? Du Pr? reluctantly agrees. In his spare time when he's not consulting, fiddling and looking for murderers, he somehow manages to find something that sets academia--and the US government--on fire. What he does with it will make all contrary souls like me laugh and applaud.Some folks complain that there's not a whole lot of plot to Bowen's Du Pr? novels, or a whole lot of mystery for that matter. The reply that pops first into my mind is rather blunt: who the hell cares? Normally when I read the latest edition of the Du Pr? Daily News, I hear his fiddle clearly in my mind. While reading Cruzatte and Maria, I didn't. Instead I was in a pirogue with Du Pr? paddling down the Missouri River. Like a handhewn pirogue, this book followed the currents of the river. Good use of the paddle took us to logjams of extraordinary characters, to the quicksand of history, to the shallows of the here and now. Grabbing the sides of the pirogue as we shot through some rapids, I felt the heat of the Montana sun on my shoulders and the vastness of the Montana sky stretch over my head. In many of Bowen's novels there is a clash between the "natives" and the "outsiders". Cruzatte and Maria is no exception. When fiercely independent natives live in an area coveted by outsiders with more money than sense, these clashes are inevitable. Sometimes they can be funny, sometimes they can be violent, but ultimately these clashes are always tragic. It is Bowen's strength that he can write about all of this so vividly, so naturally, in books that don't seem to have a whole lot of plot.If you can't tell by my reviews, this is one series that I wish I could get all mystery lovers to try just once. Bowen is an unsung treasure who deserves more recognition.

    Book preview

    Cruzatte and Maria - Peter Bowen

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    Cruzatte and Maria

    A Montana Mystery Featuring Gabriel Du Pré

    Peter Bowen

    … For the tribe of Martin—

    Bill, Laura, John, Brian, and Pooker Bear…

    Contents

    CHAPTER 1

    CHAPTER 2

    CHAPTER 3

    CHAPTER 4

    CHAPTER 5

    CHAPTER 6

    CHAPTER 7

    CHAPTER 8

    CHAPTER 9

    CHAPTER 10

    CHAPTER 11

    CHAPTER 12

    CHAPTER 13

    CHAPTER 14

    CHAPTER 15

    CHAPTER 16

    CHAPTER 17

    CHAPTER 18

    CHAPTER 19

    CHAPTER 20

    CHAPTER 21

    CHAPTER 22

    CHAPTER 23

    CHAPTER 24

    CHAPTER 25

    CHAPTER 26

    CHAPTER 27

    CHAPTER 28

    CHAPTER 29

    CHAPTER 30

    CHAPTER 31

    CHAPTER 32

    CHAPTER 33

    CHAPTER 34

    CHAPTER 35

    CHAPTER 36

    CHAPTER 37

    CHAPTER 38

    CHAPTER 39

    CHAPTER 40

    CHAPTER 41

    CHAPTER 42

    CHAPTER 43

    CHAPTER 44

    CHAPTER 45

    CHAPTER 46

    CHAPTER 47

    CHAPTER 48

    CHAPTER 49

    Preview: Ash Child

    Copyright Page

    CHAPTER 1

    DU PRÉ LIMPED INTO the Toussaint Saloon. He slid up on a stool, wincing.

    What the hell happened to you? said Susan Klein, not looking up from her knitting.

    Shoeing horses, said Du Pré. One of them he don’t like it so good.

    Susan nodded.

    How bad? she said.

    There is this sound, said Du Pré, when his hock hit my ribs. Like when you crunch carrots, your teeth.

    Coughing any blood? asked Susan Klein. She still didn't look up from her knitting.

    No big clots, said Du Pré.

    Susan nodded.

    You want sympathy or a drink? said Susan. She frowned at the wool in her hands.

    Both, said Du Pré.

    Susan put her knitting down on the bartop. She went to the well and put ice in a tall glass with whiskey and water.

    She pushed the drink over to Du Pré.

    You pore of son of a bitch, she said, looking at him mournfully.

    Du Pré nodded.

    He drank.

    Susan went back to her stool and sat.

    Click click click went her needles.

    Harvey Wallace called for you, said Susan. He said he will call back.

    I am dead, tell him, ver’ sad, but the funeral is tomorrow, said Du Pré.

    Harvey Fucking Weasel Fat Wallace, Du Pré thought, Blackfeet FBI Agent, never calls me with any good news.

    That would be telling an untruth, said Susan Klein.

    OK, said Du Pré, I will tell him I am dead. Ow. He rubbed his ribs.

    The door opened and a couple of ranchers came in laughing. They took the drinks to the pool table and the balls thundered out of the belly of the table. A rancher racked them and the other broke; balls clacked.

    Shit, said one of the ranchers.

    Du Pré rolled a smoke, and he lit it and blew out a long stream of blue-gray cloud.

    They really grind up dog turds to mix in that stuff? said Susan Klein.

    Poodle, said Du Pré. Ver’ expensive dogs.

    A ball rattled down a pocket.

    Whoeee! said a rancher.

    The telephone rang. Susan Klein didn’t stir.

    Neither did Du Pré.

    The telephone rang and rang and rang. Finally, one of the ranchers went to the pay phone and picked it up.

    Yeah? he said. He listened.

    Du Pré! he said. Fer you.

    Du Pré sighed, and he got up and walked slowly toward the old box on the wall by the front door. The rancher who had answered it looked at him.

    Thanks, said Du Pré, from my heart.

    The rancher grinned.

    Du Pré lifted the receiver to his ear.

    Yah, he said.

    Du Pré, said Harvey Wallace. Long time no come to phone. You prick.

    I am dead, said Du Pré. Ver’ sad, you should come, the funeral, it is tomorrow.

    You don’t want to talk to me, said Harvey. I told my boss that you wouldn’t. I said, ‘Du Pré will tell me to go to hell,’ what I said. She said to try my best. Or I’d be out there, in the fucking cactus, eating fried calf nuts and smelling that stinking goddamned sagebrush and all the rest of that shit I couldn’t wait to get away from.

    She say all that? said Du Pré. She knows you good, huh?

    Very smart lady, said Harvey. Scary, actually. Here I am, drawing a fat government paycheck and bennies and all, and the ungrateful bitch wants me to work, too.

    I was kicked, a horse, today, said Du Pré. "And me, I come here to have some nice drinks, sit, smoke a little, get used to my ribs which are not the ribs I woke up with, this morning, they have changed. So maybe you could stop telling me, your work troubles, ask me what it is you want me to do so I can say go fuck yourself, Harvey and go back, get used to my ribs."

    Harvey sighed.

    We have a problem maybe, said Harvey. Actually I lied. My boss actually did not say a word to me. Nobody has. But, well, I don’t have very much to do, you know, this being government work, and so I read the newspapers, lots of newspapers, and I even read some of what folks call newspapers out where you are.

    My ribs, said Du Pré. They are waiting, your punch line.

    For the last three years, said Harvey, people have been disappearing over there on the Missouri.

    Yah, said Du Pré, We have this governor, Meagher, he fall in long time ago they don’t find him. So he is who I am looking for?

    Harvey sighed.

    I smell trouble, he said. Look, nine people have just up and flat evaporated in the last three years. They all were going down the river through that White Cliffs area, you know, Fort Benton on—

    To the dam, said Du Pré.

    Yeah, said Harvey. They found their boats, floating down in the river, and they found their gear, some of it anyway, but the people they never did find …

    Du Pré sighed. He rubbed his sore ribs.

    Too bad, said Du Pré. They go down the river covers them, mud and sand, they don’t come up. Happens, you know.

    I know, said Harvey, but I just don’t like this.

    So, said Du Pré, so send one of the Mormons you got, you know, the wing tips the suit, blend in so good, have them ask them questions.

    Very funny, said Harvey. But there is something else. The local law there doesn’t seem to care very much.

    Shit, said Du Pré. They are lost, the river, but don’t know what county they are lost in? They got no money at all, Harvey, is why they do not care. They got maybe a sheriff, two deputies, county big as them states back where you are, they got troubles now, yes.

    Harvey sighed.

    Maybe, he said.

    Oh, said Du Pré. You got no jurisdiction, can’t send nobody, so you call me, your good friend Du Pré, him got the broken ribs and he is ver’ thirsty, say, Du Pré, you maybe go up there, snoop around for your old friend Harvey, see maybe you can find a crime, one that he likes …

    Harvey sighed.

    Fuck you, no, said Du Pré.

    I guess, said Harvey, I’ll have to talk to Madelaine.

    Prick, said Du Pré.

    Thing is, said Harvey, much as I talk about the West and say I hope never to see goddamn prickly pear cactus and smell sage again I don’t really mean it. What I am afraid of—

    They already start a war out here, Harvey, said Du Pré. "They say, the ranchers, you are so bad for the environment. I know people get killed here, long time."

    I don’t want that, said Harvey.

    Me either, said Du Pré.

    Good, said Harvey. I knew I could count on you.

    "NON!" yelled Du Pré.

    Thing was, well, about the dog … said Harvey.

    My ribs hurt, I need a drink, I say no, non, Harvey, it is nice talking to you always. Go fuck the dog now, be happy, said Du Pré.

    It was this bloodhound, said Harvey.

    Susan Klein brought Du Pré his drink. He had some.

    I sent this guy out there, look around a little, said Harvey.

    Wing tips, dark suit, said Du Pré.

    Ranch kid from Wyoming, said Harvey. Supposed to be looking for a little spread, up on the river.

    Du Pré sighed.

    He’s there about three days, no motel, so he’s got this little motor home, you know, said Harvey.

    Fuck, said Du Pré.

    One morning he’s camped down by the river on BLM land, in this little grove of trees. Scratching at the door. My guy figures it is a dog got lost, he opens the door, there’s the dog.

    Du Pré waited.

    Big bloodhound, said Harvey. Long face, big ears, and this sign on a string around his neck.

    Du Pré muttered curses under his breath.

    Want to know what the sign says? said Harvey.

    Du Pré waited.

    Look on my collar, said Harvey. So my guy does and there is this little brass plaque there, got the dog’s name on it and a phone number.

    Du Pré waited.

    My name is Whispering Smith, said Harvey. That was the dog’s name, I mean.

    There is no sign on that dog, look at my collar, said Du Pré.

    No, there wasn’t, said Harvey. But I thought I needed to add that for dramatic effect.

    Son of a bitch, said Du Pré.

    You know who Whispering Smith was? said Harvey.

    Yes, said Du Pré.

    CHAPTER 2

    BART FASCELLI WAS GRILLING eggplant and tomato halves and garlic cloves, and the rich smell of olive oil and charcoal and garlic rose up in clouds.

    He had two legs of lamb in a covered cooker, crusty brown outside, pink inside.

    He had baked Italian bread.

    Du Pré and Madelaine sat at the big table Du Pré had made from big rough four-by-fours of walnut and butternut. Bart had sketched out the design. He had gotten the wood somewhere, and paid a lot of money for it.

    So who was Whispering Smith? said Bart.

    Charley Siringo, said Du Pré. He was a Pinkerton and he broke up cattle rustlers, said his name was Whispering Smith.

    Whispering Smith, said Bart. Good guy or bad?

    Depends on whether you are a cattle rustler or a rancher, said Madelaine. Lots of things just depend.

    That goddamned Harvey, said Du Pré. Him, want me go up there and see about these people they are missing.

    How many? said Bart.

    Nine, said Du Pré.

    Maybe they just drowned, said Bart.

    Du Pré nodded. He lit a smoke.

    The telephone chirred and Bart grabbed it and went back to his cooking. He had the phone to his ear.

    Oh, Maria! he said. How are things?

    He listened.

    No shit? he said.

    He listened.

    Yeah, he said. Of course. No, I told you that I would much rather you read a good book or went to a museum or a concert. Everybody has to work. Your work is educating yourself. So you won’t turn out like me.

    Bart laughed, and he handed the phone to Du Pré.

    Papa, said Maria, say something.

    Yah, said Du Pré. So what you want, me to say?

    Ah, said Maria, her voice lilting like Du Pré’s now. I just want to hear métchif a little.

    Yah, said Du Pré.

    So how are you? said Maria.

    Got kicked my ribs hurt that goddamned Harvey is after me and it is snowing outside, said Du Pré. In the last two minutes the sky had blackened and big fat wet flakes of snow were falling hard.

    Spring.

    Maybe a full-blown blizzard.

    Seen one in July once.

    That Bart, said Maria. He is paying for me to go, school, and anything I want to do, learn more. He is a nice man.

    Du Pré grunted.

    Maria was holding something back.

    You are coming home, said Du Pré.

    Papa! said Maria. You knew. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t tell Madelaine, no one. But you know.

    I am your papa, said Du Pré.

    Yeah, said Maria. I will be there in two, three weeks.

    Du Pré grunted.

    You know how much Bart is paying for me to go to school here? said Maria. Forty-seven thousand a year, with everything, my rent on my apartment.

    Du Pré whistled. Forty-seven thousand dollars was more than he made in three years, most years.

    Madelaine is there, said Maria.

    Yah, said Du Pré, handing the phone to Madelaine.

    Madelaine walked off with it, away from the cooking and the men.

    Du Pré looked at Bart.

    "Forty-seven thousand dollars a year?" said Du Pré.

    Out of the question, said Bart. You aren’t worth that much.

    That is what you are paying, so Maria can go, that fancy school, said Du Pré.

    That’s different, said Bart. "She is worth that."

    Jesus, said Du Pré.

    I thought you wanted a raise, said Bart. Out of the question.

    I don’t work for you, said Du Pré.

    Bart thought about that for a moment.

    God is merciful, said Bart.

    Him give me money from time to time and I make furniture for him, I finish out his house for him. Packets of hundreds, right from the bank. I have more money in my pocket sometimes than any Métis ever had.

    Du Pré looked at his friend.

    You are a prick, said Du Pré, but thank you anyway.

    Bart waved airily.

    How much are you worth? said Du Pré, grinning.

    He had never asked Bart that before.

    Bart looked at him.

    There’s a magazine, he said. "Forbes. They said I was worth two point seven billion dollars."

    Oh, said Du Pré.

    But I am sure it is a lot more than that, said Bart.

    Oh, said Du Pré, that Maria, she is coming home.

    Bart smiled sunnily.

    Good, he said. I’ll get her a ride.

    Du Pré shook his head.

    Let them fly, the regular plane, he said.

    Aw, come on, said Bart.

    Du Pré thought about it.

    For one thing, there wasn’t a regular plane to this part of Montana.

    The roads were full of frost boils.

    The drive to Billings would be hell.

    Fly them from Billings maybe, said Du Pré.

    Done, said Bart.

    Ok, said Du Pré. Me, I do not want my daughter spoiled.

    Maria, said Bart, would be insulted if I spoiled her. You know … well, like so much it’s too easy for me.

    Du Pré nodded.

    So damn easy for you it kill you pret’ near, Du Pré thought.

    Bart’s red face, bloated with drink and misery, Bart’s shaking hands, his convulsive vomiting.

    I remember all that.

    Hasn’t had a drink, years.

    Good.

    It’s a pleasure for me to help Maria, said Bart. She will go out into the world and do something good. She’s a person with so much light in her.

    Du Pré made himself another ditchwater highball.

    What is eating on you, Du Pré? said Bart.

    Du Pré looked at him.

    Harvey, said Du Pré. Him want me, go over to the Missouri, the Bear Paw country. People are missing there.

    Bart nodded.

    Du Pré drank.

    Harvey send a spy, said Du Pré. They know right away, send him the dog.

    I get all that, said Bart. Why does Harvey think you can do this when his guy couldn’t?

    Du Pré shook his head.

    Me I do not know.

    Lots of people are not telling me everything, Du Pré thought.

    I won a big ranch there, said Bart. Bought it to save it, if I can. God, the cattle business is terrible now. The Van Der Meer place. Outbid two insurance companies and some computer millionaire. Why the hell people want a cattle ranch when they get money I don’t know.

    Du Pré laughed. Bart owned a dozen in the West, huge places.

    My friend he digs ditches and foundations with his backhoe, his dragline, his dozer. He likes the work, gets all dirty, days end there is a hole in the ground wasn’t there before.

    Jesus.

    Madelaine came back, grinning.

    Du Pré looked at her.

    She shook her head.

    Lots of people not telling me everything, thought Du Pré.

    Dinner’s ready, said Bart.

    CHAPTER 3

    DU PRÉ LOOKED UP at the sky and nodded.

    See them, said Madelaine, over there?

    The plane was a silver glint to the southwest.

    If that was the plane.

    She not been here a long time, said Madelaine. Good to see that Maria.

    Du Pré rolled a cigarette.

    My Maria she come back here from that English school she has been studying at, probably tell me she is marrying somebody. I smile, I pray for him.

    Du Pré, said Madelaine, she is not getting married.

    Du Pré looked at her.

    Sometimes you think damn loud, Du Pré, said Madelaine. She talks to me, you know. Women things. You are just her father.

    Yah, thought Du Pré, me, I know that. My wife die, Jacqueline and Maria they are small. They take care of me good. Some of the things they cook for me, they almost take care of me altogether, but I eat them and smile.

    Long time gone now.

    The plane was descending, a twin-engined prop type, blue and white.

    The pilot set the airplane down on the dirt runway softly and the blur of the propellers darkened and the engine noise wound down.

    A band of sheep ran past Du Pré and Madelaine.

    The plane was slowing but still going fairly fast.

    Cow looks for a place to hide, Du Pré thought, sheep, look for a place to die.

    Little Marisa shot past on her horse, laughing. She turned the pony deftly and the sheep stopped cold, milled, and retreated.

    Du Pré turned. Most of Jacqueline’s mob of children were there, faces full of glee.

    Aunty Maria, she is ver’ popular here, Du Pré thought. They play a few awful jokes on her, so she knows that they love her.

    Scary bunch, them, said Madelaine. Pilot maybe turn round, fly away.

    Alcide was carrying the pet owl. The Great Gray was looking at the sheep, yellow eyes sleepy.

    The plane rolled to a stop and the pilot stopped the engines and the propellers slowed and the door of the plane opened down, making a short ladder to the ground.

    A big blue duffel bag flew out. Another. A third.

    The children passed Du Pré and Madelaine in a body, shrieking.

    Good, said Du Pré. She bring a lot of bribes. Maybe my Maria she live till sundown.

    Maria came out of the door, smiling, and she got to the ground and the kids surrounded her. Alcide trotted in late, burdened by the owl. Five dogs followed. The sheep bunched in alarm.

    Maria waved at Du Pré and Madelaine, when she got an arm free for a few seconds. She was lifting Berne to kiss her while little Pallas hugged her waist.

    Them kids they like her, said Madelaine.

    A tall young man, dark-haired, wearing glasses, poked his head out of the plane. He said something to Maria. She said something back. He came down the steps, gingerly.

    The children all looked at him.

    We got to save him, said Du Pré, stepping forward.

    Madelaine snorted and she followed.

    Papa! said Maria. Madelaine! You got a cattle prod maybe?

    Pallas had left the mob and she approached the young man, who was standing nervously at the bottom of the steps.

    The little girl was looking up at him, very grave.

    I am Du Pré, said Du Pré.

    Mr. Du Pré, said the young man. Glad to meet you. This must be Madelaine. I’m Ben … Ben Burke.

    You my auntie’s boyfriend? said Pallas. She had her little fists on her hips.

    Uh, yes, said Ben, puzzled.

    You be good to her I cut your balls off, said Pallas.

    Pallas! said Madelaine, I paddle your butt. You apologize.

    I am very sorry and will cut your balls off … said Pallas.

    Nothing much to do, that one, said Du Pré. My advice, don’t piss her off.

    Believe me, said Ben Burke, I won’t. He was shaking with laughter.

    That Maria, she warn you? said Madelaine.

    Her description, said Ben, was insufficient.

    Don’t show no weakness, said Madelaine. Them kids smell it, they bunch up and charge.

    Little Pallas was still standing there.

    I guess you’re OK, she said.

    Ben bowed to her. He reached into the plane and brought out a battered canvas-and-leather suitcase, and then some newer luggage, of a honey-colored morocco.

    The pilot came out, yawning, and she lit a cigarette.

    Good morning, she said.

    You want some breakfast? said

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